in aere amarus est
by Empire of Dust
Summary: Wrenched from a peace Shepard's grown to love, they aren't entirely thrilled to be woken.


Before her eyes, the _Normandy_ erupted in a flurry of flames and debris, Joker's escape pod swallowed by the vast emptiness of the universe. She learned this because she was floating freely in the galaxy, floating as she watched everything she knew be eaten away by flames and destruction and space. Her body arched this way and that, struggling in vain. Air would not come to her, no matter how hard her lungs strained; her only link to oxygen cut off arbitrarily. Her hands grabbed at the severed cables feebly, as if it wasn't too late to undone the damage. And it was at this moment that Peyton learned that she was screwed, that this was the end. In her life, she had been in many fox holes, many tight spaces, and she had always put it up to sheer luck whenever she exited them alive. Yet this time, her luck had run out and fate finally caught up to her.

So this is what death was like. So this is how she would die. She always imagined her death to be more flashy, more grand and heroic than asphyxiation. Peyton never really gave much thought to death until now, until its cold embrace came to take her. It was funny, to her at any rate. But then she always had a sick sense of humour.

The last thing Peyton sees is black on black on tiny dots of white. So much black. Her entire world was turned upside down and the colour was drained from it, filled in with monochrome shades and harsh outlines of things she did not have the energy to name.

And then—nothing.

Just nothing.

She was gone, she knew. Peyton was no longer of the world.

And she was fine with it, really. Maybe she could finally rest now. Take a break. Yes, that sounded heavenly.

For a time, Peyton was content, more content and at peace then she had been in a while. Gone were the erratic bursts of gunshot and the knowledge that one day, she could be caught in the cross-hairs of some sniper. Gone were the days were she'd constantly have to watch her back, or wonder if she could really trust _them_ (who "_them_" was, Peyton couldn't say). For once, Peyton didn't have a pistol clutched in her fist, aimed at some sobbing mercs' head. She wouldn't tell anyone else this, but she relished the absence of violence.

There were rare blips in time where she missed _something_ or _someone_, but she couldn't give it a name, or explain it. The feeling, that is. Not that she could talk, or hear, or see or taste. Her existence—if she could really call it that—could not be accurately described with words. She could see everything and nothing at the same time, she was everywhere and nowhere. She just _was_.

"There. On the monitor. Something's wrong." A voice of a woman Peyton didn't want to know spoke, and broke her peace. She was wrenched violently from her world of calm and back into the plane of the living, heaving for air and praying for the torment to end.

_No, nothing's wrong. Leave me be._ She wanted nothing more than to tell the woman this, but no words came.

"She's reacting to outside stimuli." This time it was a man's voice. These people didn't seem to get it. "Showing an awareness of her surroundings."

She opens her eyes for the first time in what seems like forever, and the first thing she sees are pipes. White pipes and white ceiling tiles and white, sterile things. Above her head is a three-pronged tool that gives her the impression that she doesn't want to know what it was used for. The smell of antiseptic is sharp and bitter in her nose. Peyton wants to leave. The desire to run courses through her veins, though it doesn't override the sensation of a million fire ants burrowing around her body.

"Oh my God Miranda, I think she's waking up." The man gives a name to the female's voice, but Peyton doesn't want it. What she wants is for them to shut up and go away. There is a harsh moment of silence, where the only sound Peyton hears is her own ragged breath coming in gasps.

Soon the woman in question erupts in her eyesight, clad in some silly black and white get-up that hugs her body. Her hair is as dark as the place that claimed the Normandy: space, in all of it's infinite glory. And Peyton doesn't like her. There is an air about Miranda that makes her seem heartless, cold.

Peyton attempts to move and regrets ever entertaining the thought. A wave of pain crashes into her, and suddenly, she feels so very, very tired and ancient. Her limbs feel as if they are filled with lead, their bones replaced with a material she can not move. A headache throbs behind her eyes and blurs her eyesight. But Miranda comes closer still, and Peyton twists her head to the opposite direction, if only to get her out of her vision. She feels like Miranda is a vulture, and she is the dying prey that she stalks.

But it does not work. Another face, the male voice, just takes her place. He looks on with disapproval, shaking his head. This man—Wilson—seems older than Miranda, with bags under his eyes and scrags of hair clinging to his chin. Wilson, too, wears black and white, but he has a patch of inky, shiny material on his chest where she does not.

"Dammit Wilson! She's not ready yet. Give her the sedative!" He flinches as Miranda rounds on him angrily, his bland features pinching up in indignation. Peyton is an ant under a magnifying glass and they are watching her as she burns. The thought makes the pit of her stomach roil with anger. She would be screaming now, if she had the ability to. She'd be swearing, and shouting, and carrying on as if she wasn't twenty nine. This time, she does more than just lay there and watch.

Peyton attempts to move, lifts her arm in an effort to sock Miranda in the face. But her wrist is limp, and her hand dangles uselessly as it doesn't do as it was told. It looked like Peyton was reaching out for help, for comfort and other such things that just weren't true. Miranda notices, and just clutches her wrist with ice cold fingers, chilling Peyton to the bone. The hand is placed back at her side. Peyton's hands twitch at her sides, fingers itching to rip out the numerous IV's and tubes that must be running through her body. Yet Miranda's hand restrains the one wrist with freakish strength. Peyton knows she is in no state to resist. Miranda feigns concern, her arched brows furrowed in a mimicry of worry. The mock feeling rings hollow. _They do not care._ At least, not about her. Just her body and what it could do. For them. Whoever they were.

"Shepard—don't try to move. Just lie still. Try to stay calm." _Like hell I will, you dark-haired bitch. Not with you looming over me like this_. Her mouth attempts to form the words, but her lips are swollen and her throat has the sensation of being stuffed with cotton. The garbled mess is unintelligible. A brief look of disgust crosses Miranda's face. She glances back over at Wilson, who remains out of Peyton's sight.

"Heart rate's still climbing. Brain activity is off the charts." Unmasked excitement leaks out of his voice, and she realizes at this moment that she is nothing more than some pet project to the both of them. She is an instrument of their design; a tool for them to utilize. The realization fuels her ire, and suddenly the world begins spinning as the sedative sets in.

Earlier, she was able to shove the pain to the back of her mind, but now it has become unbearable. Then her heart starts to feel like it is going to burst of her chest, beating like a wild turian drum. And she wonders what they did to her, these dark-clothed monsters.

"Stats pushing into the red zone." Wilson says to Miranda, too calmly. "It's not working!" Miranda relinquishes her spot by Peyton's side and marches over to Wilson's. Her eyes follow Miranda's bottom-heavy frame. She pushes Wilson out of the way of an orange-screened computer. Wilson hurries to the other side of the room. Peyton watches with a glimmer of hope, because she knows only they could make the pain stop. She wants them to, so desperately.

"Another dose. Now!" Only then does the slightest hint of alarm enter any of their voices. Wilson presses a button at another computer, looking over at Miranda for a sign of approval. Peyton doesn't know what Wilson did, but she silently praises him. Everything slows down, and a frigid nip sets over her body. It dulls the pain, and she is able to push it to the back of her mind again, focus on other things. Like how her eyelids are growing heavy. The idea of sleep appeals to her more than it ever has.

"Heart rate's dropping. Stats falling back into the normal range." A sigh of relief escapes Wilson, his back turned to her. High heels click on the flooring, and again Miranda looms over her, those arched eyebrows furrowed in the familiar mimicry of concern and worry. This just agitates Peyton further.

"That was too close, we almost lost her." Such a thought does not scare Peyton as it once did. There is a part of her that longs to go back to the peace and calm of that _place_. And she hates these two for it. Miranda's cold blue eyes flit away to the left, to Wilson, and her features contort in vexation.

"I told you your estimates were off. Run the numbers again." _Fuck you. Fuck you both and your damned numbers._ The urge to scream at them in anger was becoming hard to resist, and she didn't know how much longer she could tolerate being in such a state, so close to paralysis. Peyton's swollen lips struggle to spit at Miranda, who doesn't seem to catch any of movements. The two exchange more words, but her ears catch none of them. The words just don't seem to register, and she finds herself straining to fight against the tide of exhaustion that consumes her mind and body.

The last thing Peyton recalls seeing is brilliant lights that seem to smolder her eyes, but not before she sees Miranda in all of her dark-haired callousness, staring down intently with a look that chills Peyton to the core. She is a test subject, being scrutinized by the experimenter. A corner of her wide mouth quirks up in a smirk, ever so slightly. No longer does she busy herself with the facade of looking apprehensive. There is something smug about the way Miranda peers down at her so.

Peyton would give anything to wipe that arrogant look off of Miranda's face. If only to scorch the image from her mind, Peyton stares off into the bright fluorescent lights. And soon enough darkness greets her again.


End file.
